“All I’m doing is fixing a flat tire.” I’m amazed by the audacity of my answer, but since I don’t have a motorcycle license, what’s there to lose? I suspect hunger, weariness, and aggravation also contribute to my confrontational response.

The trooper’s jaw tightens. I know he came in here looking for me. This is the second gas station I’ve been to since the BSA’s rear tire went flat. At the first, they took one look at my long hair and jeans stained with dried reddish mud and told me to get lost. I pushed the cycle across Route 17 to this station, where they’re not only friendlier but lent me some tools to take the tire off so they can patch the inner tube. (I didn’t have enough money left for the labor and a patch job.) There’s no doubt in my mind that the guys at the first gas station told this trooper that some long-haired hippie from the festival was here. There must be cops all over the Northeast hunting us like migratory fowl.

Last night, when the rain let up and the music started again, I left Barry in the woods with my knapsack and sleeping bag and caught an outstanding set by Ten Years After. Later, when I headed back into the trees in the dark, it took a long time to find the clearing and the hippie school buses. When I finally did, Barry was gone and there were two couples under the tarp. The wooden crate of food, the camp stove, my gear, and Barry’s sleeping bag were still there. The yellow-and-orange butterfly kite on the pole was leaning against a tree trunk.

It started to rain again. Expecting Barry to return, I asked the couples if I could lie down while I waited.

When I woke this morning, Barry hadn’t come back. There was no sign of Zach and Eva, either. The others under the tarp were still asleep. The rain had stopped and music was playing. I wandered back down to the concert, now a muddy wasteland of soggy paper plates; empty cans and bottles; abandoned, soaked sleeping bags and clothes; and plastic sheets, some with freaks sleeping under or on them. The relatively small crowd — compared to the days before — that remained was watching Sha Na Na. A girl wrapped in a mud-spattered blanket told me that Hendrix would play next. I knew he was the closing act. Had Dylan ever shown up? I asked, thinking that he might have played while I’d slept last night. She shook her head.

“What’s in the knapsack?” the trooper asks now.